Agavê cried, "Ho, stand we round the trunk,
Maenads, and grasp, that we may catch the beast
Crouched there, that he may not proclaim abroad
Our God's mysterious rites!" Their countless hands
Set they unto the pine, tore from the soil:— 1110
And he. high-seated, crashed down from his height:
And earthward fell with frenzy of shriek on shriek
Pentheus, for now he knew his doom at hand.
His mother first, priest-like, began the slaughter,
And fell on him: but from his hair the coif 1115
He tore, that she might know and slay him not,—
Hapless Agavê!—and he touched her cheek,
Crying, "'Tis I—O mother!—thine own son
Pentheus—thou bar'st me in Echion's halls!
Have mercy, O my mother!—for my sin 1120
Murder not thou thy son—thy very son!"
But she, with foaming lips and eyes that rolled
Wildly, and reckless madness-clouded soul,
Possessed of Bacchus, gave no heed to him;
But his left arm she clutched in both her hands, 1125
And set against the wretch's ribs her foot,
And tore his shoulder out—not by her strength,
But the God made it easy to her hands.
And Ino laboured on the other side,
Rending his flesh: Autonoë pressed on—all 1130
The Bacchanal throng. One awful blended cry
Rose—the king's screams while life was yet in him,
And triumph-yells from them. One bare an arm,
One a foot sandal-shod. His ribs were stripped
In mangled shreds:[1] with blood-bedabbled hands 1135
Each to and fro was tossing Pentheus' flesh.
- ↑ Others, "by rending nails."
